


When You Stop Running

by mirianilavellan



Series: Little Bird, Little Wolf [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Slavery
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-13
Updated: 2016-08-15
Packaged: 2018-05-25 10:19:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 4,286
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6191221
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mirianilavellan/pseuds/mirianilavellan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Series of Fenris/Marian Hawke shorts, set at various times throughout the story.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Paper Books

Hawke liked to paint. She liked to draw too, as he first observed her not long after they met, as she sat on a low wall in Lowtown sketching passersby on cheap paper with a piece of charcoal. Lovely, lifelike little things, capturing the character of strangers in a few well placed strokes. He watched over her shoulder as her dark hair fell in front of her eyes glinting in the morning sun, intent on her task until she spotted him and exclaimed in surprised.

“Maker, Fenris! Hello, again. You needn’t sneak up on me though.”

“My apologies. I came to return the staff you left at the mansion.”

“Oh, that’s Merrill’s. Thankyou, though. I’ll see it stays hidden until I can return it.”

In truth, it was an excuse, although the woman before him didn’t seem to have latched onto this fact. He knew entirely whose weapon it was, having watched the mages with, well... the eye of the hawk the entire time they had fought together. He had simply wanted an excuse to seek this human out, to test the waters. She had offered her friendship freely, it seemed, her and the rest of her misfit crew hiding from the law right under the nose of the law. But he knew better than to trust a mage, and a human one at that.

“Ah, I’m sorry,” she said, putting her charcoal on the side, “I’m being rude. Would you like to sit down?”

He remained standing.

“You’re very good.”

“Oh,” she said, her cheeks colouring a little, “thankyou. It’s just something to keep the hands busy, you know.”

She looked embarrassed, and he tried to hide a smile that threatened out of nowhere by gesturing to the side.

“I’ve been looking over the mansion and there are... many blank books lying around the place. You’re welcome to them, if you like. It’s poor payment, but perhaps you’ll put them to good use.”

She smiled suddenly, as bright as anything he’d ever seen, and he watched her carefully as she tried to choose her words, “I... thankyou. I’ll come by sometime? We’re doing cards at the Hanged Man tonight, in case Varric hasn’t already invited you. I could pick them up before then?”

He nodded, just once, and turned to walk away. He would have to keep an eye on that one. Often they pretended to be sweet or coy to gain the trust of a man. The games the Magisters had played were fresh in his mind. And yet, as he walked away, remembering her smile that seemed less polite than surprised, he had the persistant feeling that perhaps he was not the only one who had been starved of kindness in recent times. 

He put the thought out of his mind. They were only paper books, after all.


	2. Armour

“So, I have to ask. What is it with the paint?”

They were drunk again. No, not quite drunk, he reevaluated, but tipsy. A few drinks, the Hanged Man of an eve, watching their little gang play cards. It seemed the only way they could get close to each other, leaning against the wall in the corner of Varric’s quarters ignoring the loud game at the table. Her shoulder pressed against his in a sweet kind of pressure that he never realised he could enjoy. This was how they grabbed their few private conversations when they weren’t on the road, moments stolen amongst the noise and hubub. He had a feeling Varric was purposefully keeping the others occupied, distracting Anders from where he was about to rise to offer Hawke another drink. Fenris hid a smile.

“It’s war paint, Ferelden war paint. My father had a habit of wearing it... he liked the stories of the Avvar, of the Chasind. Of the Ferelden barbarians of old. I put it on when we were fighting the Darkspawn. Or fleeing them, rather. I thought I told you?”

He glanced down at where she sat beside him, relaxed in a way he rarely saw her, blue eyes cast down as she fiddled with her tankard. 

“You never said why you wear it.”

“Oh.”

”If I’m prying...?”

“Ah, no. But let me ask you... why do you wear your armour even when we sit here?”

He nodded, “I understand.”

“I’m not sure I even have the right words to explain.”

“I am here, if you ever wish to try.”

“I- thankyou, Fenris.”

“Anytime, Marian.”

And the pressure on his shoulder became painful a moment as she shoved him, and he laughed and caught her before she threatened to topple right into his lap.


	3. The Fool

He should have realised sooner, he thinks, with a pang that sends a not-quite-unpleasant warmth shooting straight down his chest. Hawke, who is so witty and smooth, especially in the face of those who would have her in pieces.

Hawke, who composes littles ditties and ridiculous limericks about her friends on the road to poke gentle fun at them on the road after a day of harsh fighting. And Hawke, who teaches him how to read and picks simple and beautiful poems which she reads with a lilting cadence to her voice. Hawke who, he now realises, trips over those same words when she asks if he wants another drink, or if she can help him with his overflowing basket of the week’s groceries. Who hides it well in front of the others, but who often asks him questions in way that’s a little too confident, as though she’s trying just that little bit harder.

 _Because she is_ , Isabela informs him with a snort when he confides this to her one very drunk evening at the Hanged Man. _You are such a hopeless fool, Fenris._

And he tests it, that very same evening, when they’re both a little worse for wear and he walks her home as he always does. And she never invites him in, perhaps afraid that he’ll say no, and he never asks, perhaps afraid she’ll say yes. But he says that evening that he has enjoyed her company, simply that, but those blue eyes are cast towards the ground, and can that really be a blush, or are her cheeks simply red from the wine? And before he has a chance to really assess this, she is up on her tiptoes - _adorable_ \- and looking in his eyes, her hair strewn messily across her face - _beautiful_ \- and she tilts her head to the side and brushes his cheek oh-so-gently with her lips. And for a moment he wishes nothing more than to wrap his arms around her and pull her in close, but he stares, and she stares. And he can see it in her eyes: _Have I gone too far?_

So he grabs the moment before it leaves, tilts his head down to her forehead and presses his lips there for a long second, his hands gently settling on her waist and the side of her neck. He allows himself this, just for that second, before he pulls back and sees her become flustered again, her eyes flitting to the side. But she’s smiling and when he says he should go she looks up at him, and he smiles back before they both turn away, hearts pounding.

He can hear suddenly the city guard approaching and the sound of a fountain and the muttering of ne’er-do-wells all in a rush, and strides off before the warmth pooling at the base of his spine threatens to burn him right though. _You are such a fool, Fenris._


	4. Knots

He wakes and his first thought is that he has been captured, tied down. He almost jumps up, stiffening and pausing when he realises he is in the Hanged Man and the offending weight on his chest is... not so offending, after all. The jolt hasn’t woken her, but she murmers in her sleep and shifts slightly, dark hair falling in front of her closed eyes. 

Her war paint has all but come off from yesterday, and he realises with a pleasant thought that this is the first time he has seen her without it. She wears it as protection, he thinks, like he does his armour. To be able to face the day and its challenges and feel like a fighter. There’s something delicate about her like this, strewn across him in her undershirt and breeches, bare feet and bare armed. Her ever presents gloves are gone too, and he sees a pair of scarlet ribbons tied around her wrist. It’s striking against her pale skin, and for one painful moment he has to look to the ceiling to refrain from pulling one towards him and kissing the inside of her wrist.

It’s before dawn, he thinks, glancing outside. Varric’s rooms are empty and they lay across his surprisingly fragrant bed, which most likely means half of their friends are still passed out at the bar, and the other half are in Isabela’s rooms. He shakes his head at the thought, realising all of a sudden a peircing headache is threatening. It’s quieter than he’s ever heard it in here, and... can that be? An actual bird singing outside? Impossible, he begins to think, but then she shifts against him again, and the pressure is exquisite. She fits so neatly down his side, leg slung over his, although thankfully not too high. His arm is dead around her back and he shifts it ever so slightly, feeling the lyrium pulse. Around her it acts more sensitively, flaring up when she comes near, but even after all this time he can’t make out if it’s really her or him. 

She shifts again, and wakes this time, eyes fluttering open and finding his, sleepily. He realises at some point he has wrapped his hand around her wrist and she looks down, gently removing it before threading her fingers with him. Well, he thinks. And then suddenly he’s not, as he pulls her hand up and does exactly what he promised he wouldn’t. Slowly pulls down her scarlet ribbon and very gently kisses the inside of her wrist. And he feels her breath catch against him as she gazes, wide awake suddenly as she smiles and presses her cheek to his. But when he moves her wrist away, he is surprised to see scars there. Friction marks, he thinks. She has let him see this, he knows, and she pulls the ribbon further to place her smaller wrist against him. Comparing shackle marks.

“There, we match,” she says, almost too quietly to hear. And he hears all the pain in her voice, and pulls her closer.

“Tell me,” he replies, equally as quietly.

“Bounty hunters, looking for stray mages. Or so they said. I let them have me in exchange for letting Bethany go. It was a long time ago.”

Something opens up in him, fresh and raw, and he has to bite down on an anger bubbling up from somewhere he cannot fathom. She’s propped herself up on his chest, close enough to kiss, but he won’t. Not like this.

“It was a long time ago,” she repeats, pressing her lips to his brow. But the ache doesn’t go away, and he realises how hard he has been frowning when she takes her fingers and massages them in the middle of his brow, the loose ribbon trailing over his eyes. 

“I am sorry that happened to you.”

It’s enough. Hawke doesn’t like to be coddled, never coddles him. Is simply there for him when he needs it, as he so badly wants to be for her. She has rested her head back upon his chest, and the thought casually enters his mind that it would be nice for her to be placed there every morning. Or every minute of every day, alternatively. But he’s stroking her hair, and she reaches around her hands to untie the scarlet ribbons, wrapping them around his own wrist with delicacy and tightening, gently but firmly. And it’s such a perfect gesture, and one so sweetly shy in her movements that he suddenly and inexplicably wants to weep, although he doesn’t exactly know why. 

The air is heavy, and suddenly he wonders if she feels as he does, like they are constantly hooking these delicate little ribbons around each other and tightening. Whether one day the bonds will become too tight to breathe. But she’s hugging him tightly now, and he runs his hand down her back in a reassuring gesture. This, he can be, for sure. He has no comforting or poetic words, but he has an embrace that tethers her to the ground. She told him that once, muffled against his shirt after one long, bloody day. So they stay still for a while longer, until the loud stomping and pained grumbling from outside finally stirs them from their embrace.


	5. Scars

Fenris was never allowed to scar. Past the markings every injury, however small, was seen to by Danarius himself. At first it had been a point of pride for him, an ordinary injured slave might be sold off cheaply if healing wasn’t worth the price of their labour, and Fenris knew many slaves with the scars of the whip cut deeply into their back and legs. Some Masters used it as a tool for boasting, a well scarred slave being a savage beast they had managed to tame against the odds.

Danarius told him that, as he meticulously healed a graze caused by a stray bandit arrow, his long fingers gentle in a way that his slave had trained himself not to show his revulsion of. He did not know how true it was.

“But I would never do such a thing, not to you, my Fenris. I cannot have my prize sullied in any way now, can I?”

“No, Dominus.” He had replied.

Even after he was on the run, he had maintained a certain self-conciousness about sullying his skin. Every cut he went out of his way to see healed properly, and the first time he had failed to prevent scarring he had wept long into the night, with disappointment, with fear. With something else.

Hawke, on the other hand, was scarred to kingdom come. The mage couldn’t cast a decent barrier to save her life - literally - and so took heavy blows someone else her size might have been cast down by. It was unexpected, he thought, that someone so small should be able to take such a beating. Should be be able to start and win a bar fight at a moments notice, picking up furniture twice her size to break around some unfortunate’s head. These marks, he knew by heart. The recent half-moon scar on her forehead from a broken bottle. The jagged mark on her chin from a fight in the docks before he’d even met her, the delicate purple nick on her pale neck where a rival mercenary had attempted to slit her throat whilst she slept. He had enjoyed kissing that one, when they spent the night together.

And then there were all of the ones from their fights together. The various he glimpsed when he saw her in a sleeveless shirt, when her loose pants rode up her leg a little. The arrow wound on her calf, a sunburst of scarring. The nicks on her shoulder from various knives. A clean white mark down her leg from a slaver’s sword that he glimpsed again when Anders took her to the clinic after one impossibly long, injurous day. It was a one-off. Hawke preferred to heal herself, where she might let no-one see her scars.

And then, of course, were all the marks no-one but her knew existed. No-one else apart from him, that one night, when they had lain bare before each other and he began to believe the whole world might really be worth living in after all. The other marks on her legs, the shackle marks on her wrists always hidden by gloves. The large bunched up scar on her stomach, the one that she hated so much it almost made her cry. The marks of being caught up with evil people, those who would look upon someone so utterly perfect and attempt to destroy their shining light.

Not that Hawke could ever be extinguished. Even in distress she shone so brightly, as she lay exhausted on the settee in Varric’s room, the door locked and the fire burning low. It had been another long day of taking blows too heavy for her, and Fenris knew below that shirt of his she was wearing, there was a new injury bandaged up. One that opened an old scar - quite literally - so painful it was making her struggle not to weep. 

He wouldn’t look, if she didn’t want him too. He tucked his face into the side of her neck and gave her his hand to place over abdomen.

“Use the markings,” he said, voice hoarse. He felt her hand slide over his, the familiar hum of her cool healing magic making the lyrium whisper in response. He brushed away a single tear that fell down her cheek with his free hand and closed his eyes against her.

“I fear soon you’ll have as many scars as me.”

He felt her sniff in amusement and smiled against her cheek.

“Not as pretty,” she whispered back, voice breaking.

“Twice as pretty.”

It earned him a weak shove as the humming of her magic continued, and he gave a quiet laugh, burying his face into her shoulder. Scars of all kinds, it turned out, might be healed eventually, in one way or another.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some angsty hurt/comfort, I guess. Until Danarius is dead they're always half-together, but it's enough, to know the other is there.


	6. Belonging

Oh, they belonged to each other.

Everybody knew it, from the gentle - and not so gentle - way their friends teased them. Hawke could be snappish with them about it too, and he knew it was because she didn’t want him to feel backed into a corner. She took pains to remind him that he owed her nothing, that he didn’t have to visit her to read at the estate, until one frustrated morning he had written the words ‘ _stop fuking telling me this_ ,’ on his practice paper.

“You spelt fucking wrong,” she said with an infuriating smugness.

And yet he had been be trapped, by something. Something that made his pulse rise everytime they brushed past each other, that made his palms sweat at the sight of her in one of his shirts, that against his better judgement brought down his walls to put his arms around her whenever she was in distress. Something that caused him to let her give him a kiss on the cheek every night after he walked her home and something that, to his annoyance, caused him to frown in irritation when Anders put his hands on her affectionately. Something that even caused him to wish those tight squeezes she gave Varric and Aveline every night before she left the tavern were bestowed upon him, instead. Something that caused him to choose nights of loneliness in an instant over Isabela’s raucous suggestions as she attempted to drag him from the room one night. And something that caused him to take more than a little satisfaction from Hawke’s sour look at her pirate friend.

It was ridiculous. She wasn’t his. He had let her go. But the red favour he wore indicated that, at least, he was hers. He had thought her indifferent of it at first, kind not to demand he removed it, expecting that things between them might simply fade away. Until one morning he had taken it off for cleaning and found her in such a bad mood he could do no right the entire day.

“Have I done something to offend you?”

“No.”

He stared, “Are you... sure?”

“No, Fenris. Why would you have done something to offend me? Honestly. I’m perfectly alright.”

“Well. Alright, then.”

Varric snorted from over his papers. Hawke stormed off.

“Got a lot to learn there about women, elf.”

“Yes,” Merrill piped up, in an insufferably wise tone, “It’s all about communication, you see.”

“What are you two _talking about_?”

“I think it’s sort of sweet,” Aveline sighed, from the corner.

He found her later, miserably smoking from a clay pipe on the roof, watching her mabari scratch around at something under some debris. He took the pipe from her, unable to hide his smile at her glare, watching as it softened into something else.

“I did something.”

She sighed, “No. You didn’t do anything. It’s just me being... ridiculous. You’re free to do whatever you wish, and it’s not like Isabela isn’t free to do whatever _she_ wishes, and it’s none of my business anyway!”

He tried to stifle a laugh at the rise in her tone and failed, blinking in disbelief as she turned to leave, the hurt on her face obvious.

“Wait! Wait, Hawke. That’s what this is about? _Fasta vass_ , woman, I thought... I have _never_ bedded the pirate. And I do not intend to.”

“You took off the favour,” she sniffed, not meeting his gaze.

“For cleaning.”

“Oh.”

Her face had gone bright red, and he thought very hard about making a quip that her cheeks would do for a favour instead, until he noticed her fiddling with her hands self-conciously.

“Come here,” he murmured, pulling her towards him. She made a sound of protest before she allowed him to wrap his arms around her, burying her face into his shoulder.

“Sorry,” she mumbled, “Silly. I just thought you _knew_. I should have talked to you.”

“I’m still... learning how to express my own feelings. I didn’t intend to hurt you.”

“What are we?” She asked, honestly.

“I don’t know,” he replied, glad she could not see his face, “I might... I might not know, for a long time.”

“That’s alright. Just...”

“Yes?”

“I mean if you want to sleep with Isabel-”

“ _Hawke._ ”

She snorted, “Alright. Point taken.”

Fenris: Slave, owned thing, savage creature. He had sworn that no-one again would ever own him, that he would no longer belong to any person ever again. And yet, as Leila Mariam Hawke reached over his shoulder to nimbly take back her pipe, and he noticed one of his shirts under her tunic, he felt a pang in his stomach and an unbearable warmth pooling in the centre of his chest. For someone who had sworn such to himself almost every day for years, he wished nothing more than he could be free to give himself to her.


	7. In Miniature

“I’m going to have a miniature of you painted.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Hawke.”

“I’m serious! All those Orlesian ponces had the right idea as far as that went. Those little portraits were quite lovely.”

“It’s an unnecessary expense, especially when I have vowed to remain constantly at your side.”

“Alright, but what if one day I get annoyed with your sour lemon act and decide to take a holiday in Nevarra? Then I would most certainly need an image of your handsome visage to persuade me to come back.”

“Nonsense. No-one takes a holiday in Nevarra.”

She snorted at that, reading his book over his shoulder and fidgeting, pulling out a cushion and then tucking it back under herself. She was in one of her moods, a mood suggesting that should she not find other occupation soon, they would be shortly tangled in a mess of limbs between the blankets, panting one another’s name. Tempting, he considered, and yet he did so want to find out what happened to the plucky stableboy in this Ferelden novel Aveline had leant him.

“Alright, well I hope you don’t find the idea too repulsive, because I have something for you.”

“Oh?”

She couldn’t have possibly gotten one of him painted, he frowned, following her pale hands with interest as they rooted around in pockets. She pressed an engraved silver locket in his hand and he folded aside her book, his frown deepening as he ran his fingers over the Amell family crest on the outside.

“What’s this?”

“Honestly, Fenris, the last known specimen of the griffon.”

“Alert the Wardens,” he murmured, opening it with care. Inside was not a tiny portrait of himself, as he had imagined, but one of Hawke. A rather lovely little thing, showing her as she appeared now, complete with her red warpaint. The other side was empty though, and he wondered if it was supposed to be.

“My mother commissioned it,” she said, “before she died. But it only arrived last month, they were waiting for the rest of the commission to finish Carver on the other side, I think.”

“Are you sure...?”

“Yes,” she said firmly, “I’ve thought about it, and there’s no-one I’d like to have it more. And I think Mother would have approved, you know? She always thought rather highly of you. I believe the words she used were ‘sweet’ and ‘quiet’ though, which is not exactly h- mmph-”

He cut her off with a kiss, cupping her face in his hands and drawing it out until she sighed against him happily. He hummed for a moment, retrieving a knife from under the pillow, and setting about cutting neatly some threads from the favour around his wrist.

“What are you-?”

“Hold still,” he instructed, as he sliced off a little lock of dark hair, tying with red and tucking it into the blank side. She gave him a wide eyed look, as though utterly enchanted by this mere little gesture, and he pressed a kiss to each eyelid before looping her gift around his neck and drawing her in close.

“Perhaps it wouldn’t be so bad to sit for one, after all.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still new, still no idea what I'm doing.

**Author's Note:**

> Spoiler Alert: I'm new here and have no idea what I'm doing.


End file.
